


I Swear I'm Trying- Prompt Fill

by captaincravatthecapricious



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fainting, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nausea, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincravatthecapricious/pseuds/captaincravatthecapricious
Summary: Instead of dying in the Unknowing, Tim is trapped in the buried.  It's barely a week after Jon saved him, and Jon isn't doing particularly well.This can be read as platonic or Jonmartim.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 127





	I Swear I'm Trying- Prompt Fill

**Author's Note:**

> cw. nausea, panic attacks, migraine, fainting

He’s leaning heavily on Tim. There is no way he could possibly make it up those stairs. But what choice does he have? It’s this or pass out on the street and Tim doesn’t seem to like that idea for some reason that Jon can’t begin to fathom.  
The pain in his head...frankly makes him want to die. He can’t make his limbs quite obey him. Squinting against the hall lights. As he turns to jelly. Or perhaps the room does? Hallway? Where are they?  
Right. Tim.  
“Come on, Jon. Up the stairs.” It’s almost a growl. But it’s missing the bite that Jon has come to expect from Tim. Grown used to. Felt the teeth of gripping him deep in his chest. Worse that cut through him and could have left him bruised and bleeding.  
The metaphors got away from him.  
Right. Stairs.  
Don’t disappoint Tim.  
“Come on Jon. You gotta give me something here.”  
Right. Selfish. Tim’s actually hurt. Stiff and sore and tired, like Jon is. But actually hurt. Six months in the buried. Actually hurt. Bruised ribs and atrophied muscles. Jon was only there for three days. He’s Fine. Tim shouldn’t have to be doing this.  
Jon shouldn’t need help. Tim’s been fine on his own. Already getting a flat and getting his things from storage. And he’s only had about a week.  
Jon has had much longer than that and he’s still living in the Institute. He doesn’t have a flat, there hadn’t been a point. There still isn’t. He’s just going back there eventually.  
Although the few times Basira has let Daisy near him, she’s threatened to go in on a flat with him. And the offer doesn’t sound too bad. Only a little terrifying. Which really isn’t bad, all things considered.  
Fuck. Tim’s still talking to him.  
“Jon I can’t stand here all day. And I don’t mean that I am trying to get rid of you, I just physically can’t. Which is really pissing me off! So come on!”  
Jon manages a single stair. His vision darkens.  
“No! No! Jon! Jon, don’t you dare pass out! Don’t you fucking dare!”  
Why does Tim sound so scared? It’s not like they are in life threatening peril, this time.  
He can easily just pass out here and there is a good chance that nothing will even try to hurt him, aside from people trying to get up and down the building stairs.  
“Jon!”  
Jon works his mouth for a bit. He’s always had too many words in the past, now he’s just struggling for a couple. “I swear I’m trying…” Jon really isn’t sure if Tim understood him. He produced hardly more than the ghost of a whisper. But it took all of his strength.  
Tim probably had not heard. Jon doesn’t know much about hearing aids, or how long the battery of those tended to last, and the eye doesn’t seem keen to tell him anything as his brain is currently …melting? No wrong word. It hurts too much to think. In any case, Jon doubts Tim has working hearing aids right now, and Jon doesn’t have it in him to sign. Not to mention one of his arms is slung around Tim. 

Tim has no idea what Jon is trying to say, if he’s trying to say anything, that is. His hearing aids are hardly working after…. well…. Tim only has them in at all because Jon isn’t really up for moving or speaking up. Or being cautious about making sure Tim can read his lips. Or having the energy to make his words crisp enough to read in any case. Tim thinks Jon is saying something. Tim hopes he is because that means he isn’t unconscious yet. And if he isn’t unconscious, he can at least try to help climb the stairs.  
He can’t make it worse? Right?  
Except that Jon is slow and clumsy and his narrow chest is heaving with exertion after only a step. God only knows how they even got to his flat with Jon in such a state.  
Just like old times, peeling a half conscious and hurting Jon off his desk. Except back then, Tim could easily lift him.  
Fuck the buried.  
Fuck his lack of muscles. He’s worked on himself for Years. And the Prentice incident was a step back, but he’d made progress. It was Good for him. Working out had been an outlet. Sure he’d maybe taken it a bit too far with… everything going on, but there were worse outlets a guy could have. Now working out is a matter of necessity. So he doesn’t waste all his energy climbing the two flights of stairs to his flat. So he can lift his boss when he’s got a killer migraine and is apparently homeless and no one cared until Jon risked his neck to get he and Daisy out of the buried.  
Who even knows where Martin is. And of course, Tim is worried about that. So… Jon is all he has. That and whatever weird trauma bond he has with Daisy.  
She might be the person who slit Jon’s throat, but she was scared and he was scared, and after over six months in the crushing darkness together… well… she was there. If nothing else. She was there. And he gets that violent rage. Where the world goes red and you can’t see what is going on right in front of you. He’d probably get on well with Melanie, huh?  
But that doesn’t matter because there are still 25 steps to go and he’s shaking with the effort of supporting Jon.  
“Come on Jon. Another step. Come on!” Tim resists the urge to shake him. That won’t help. That will probably make it worse.  
Tim remembers one time in research. Jon was struck by a migraine and had been trying to make himself coffee to help. Tim had been teasing him, and had clapped a hand on his shoulder. Jon hit the floor like… well not like a ton of bricks. There was too little of Jon to hit the ground with that much force, but it certainly had been alarming. One minute Jon is talking to him, the next Tim barely taps him and he’s on the floor before Tim knows to to catch him.  
So… shaking Jon would probably make it worse.  
Jon takes another clumsy step. Swaying dangerously. And another. 

They get to the landing before Jon topples. Tim can’t catch him at that point. Just… control their fall. Because Jon is taking Tim down with him. Sliding down the wall until they are both pressed against the cold solidness of it, slid into a corner. Jon isn’t much of a weight against him, his breath hot and damp against his neck. Tim’s skin crawls. Jon is not very heavy. He isn’t heavy. This isn’t the buried. Jon weighs basically nothing.  
Tim focuses on Jon’s racing heartbeat.  
Here. Alive.  
Only thing that is dirty is the wood beneath them. The sagging wood, stained by too many feet.  
Tim tries to focus on something. Anything. Anything that isn’t the grit beneath him. And the weight (slight as it is) above him. But what else is there to focus on?  
Grand. And now he’s having a panic attack. He knows this and there isn’t much for him to do about it, but ride it out. Nothing to ground himself with. Anything he could have used would just make it worse.  
And shit, Jon is waking up.  
Which is good. That means that they can get off the floor soon. Hopefully. But he’s just…. he just can’t breathe. Which is fine. Just gotta ride it out.  
Brilliant. The lights are out now. Fucking brilliant. God, he hates motion sensors. STILL FUCKING HERE, JUST CANT FUCKING MOVE. Not helping at all. Just the universe giving him the finger. His breath coming in gasps. A vice on his chest.  
No. No. Just Jon on him. Living and breathing.  
“Whs’?”  
Living and breathing and coming around. Slowly. Tim can barely hear him. Hardly over his own heavy breathing and his lack of hearing.  
“Tim?” A little stronger, but not by much.  
He’s got to breathe. Gotta breathe for Jon.  
Can’t pass out in the hall. If he does, Jon has no one. No one would know where to look, and what if Jon wanders off. Or something happens to him. Fuck! Calm. He has to stay calm.  
“Tim?” Jon’s stupid, wavering voice. Louder now, and starting to panic too.  
Catch his breath. Come one. Breathe in. Say something. Say something so the stupid wavering voice doesn’t get soggy.  
“S’fine. Come on. Just 13 more stairs.” More of a grunt. But Jon can hear. At least, Tim is pretty sure he can. Then again Tim is missing some months. But Jon is also? No. Not important. Jon stifling a sniffle. Tim is careful not to jostle him, fearful of shaking his tenuous hold on consciousness any further.  
“Come on Jon. You’ve got to help me. Can you stand?”  
Jon groans.  
Tears on his shoulder. Great.  
“Jon, I can’t carry you.” Can barely carry himself.  
“Hurts.” Jon must Really be trying to be heard.  
Right. Yes. Jon has a migraine.  
He hadn’t forgotten, but... panic attacks sure have a way of disrupting one’s plans and priorities.  
“Okay. We can do this. We’ve survived this long... somehow. We can make it up one more goddamn flight of stairs.”  
Tim takes a shaky breath. They. Probably. Can. Even though Jon’s tears are still spreading on his shirt. He’s a goddamn faucet. But… But. That is doing a decent job of grounding Tim. Hard to think about dry dust and coatings of dirt with the saltwater of this fragile, narrow, little man on his shoulder. His unlikely savior. At this point… his oldest and closest friend, despite the bad blood between them.  
Tim manages to bully Jon to his feet, and heavily leaning on the wall, also makes his way up. His muscles are shaking pitifully and he curses the buried again.  
He refuses to let that idiotic place ruin holding Jon. Once they get to Tim’s flat, in Tim’s bed and he takes a well earned nap and Jon gets some meds and applesauce in him… they are gonna cuddle like their lives fucking depend on it and he is not going to have a single stupid flashback. He refuses. Refuses. He will not let this be ruined for him. He won’t let it be ruined. Enough has been taken from him in his stupid and shitty little life that won’t let this get taken from him. Fear Gods be fucking damned.  
One step. Another. Another. And Jon makes it over the threshold before passing out again. That’s fine. Tim can work with that. He can work with this. Muscles screaming at him, but he is so close. Right. Okay.  
Set some water and applesauce and excedrin on the bedside table. Clear out a bin, just in case. Giving his body a break from trying to support an extra person.  
He gets Jon to the bed by rolling him onto a blanket and then dragging. Thank god for wood floors. Now. Now. How the fuck to get Jon in bed.  
He kneels by Jon. Pats his face gently until he stirs. Eyes scrunching against even the dim lighting of Tim’s bedroom. He groans, and tries to shove his face into Tim’s thighs. “Not yet, boss. Come on, can you stand up for me? Just one more time? Then you can pass out all you want.”  
Jon whimpers. Just loud enough that Tim can almost make it out. Honestly whimpers, and it breaks Tim’s heart.  
He knows Jon doesn’t quite trust him. Which is fair. Tim… isn’t sure what he thinks about Jon. But Jon is all he has. Absolutely all he has. And he isn’t going to lose him too.  
“You just have to get up, then just a couple bites of applesauce then meds. You’ll feel better. I promise. Just one more time.”  
A combined effort gets them up, but then they are in the bed and Tim can finally relax. Finally. It’s still tiring spooning applesauce into a queasy and half-conscious Jon, but even in this state, Jon knows the meds are worse without food. And God knows when Jon last bothered to eat.  
“Boss, you’ve got to take better care of yourself,” Tim says, almost under his breath.  
“I’m trying…. I promise I am.” Jon signs this. Then scrubs at his face with shaking hands. Tears oozing against his will.  
Tim sighs. “I know… Come here?”  
Jon eagerly nestles into Tim’s arms, finally allowed to lay down and rest.  
Tim does not panic. His sheets are not caked in dirt. He might still change them after he and Jon are strong enough to shower…. but they are still fairly clean. And Jon is warm and safe.  
Jon’s face is pressed against his neck, and he is not Martin Blackwood, but he feels pretty damn special.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at captaincravatthecapricious! I am still taking bingo prompts! Just send me a bingo prompt and tell me which character and if you want a fic or art! I will be slowing down a little! I have gotten behind on a lot of stuff trying to publish everyday! I have got to catch up on things, but I will keep writing at least until the card is full! Thanks for reading, if you enjoyed consider dropping me a comment! And have a lovely day!


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